


The Decietful Client

by HoopyFrood (If_Ive_got_you)



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 18:43:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/If_Ive_got_you/pseuds/HoopyFrood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes gets a problem from a client that he simply can't refuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Decietful Client

Out of all the crimes that Holmes has foiled over the years, this was probably the most audacious of them all. It all started on a frosty mid-November’s evening; Holmes and I were sitting by the fire in 221B. I was acquainting myself with the news after a long day at the surgery, whilst Holmes, wrapped in his blue silk dressing gown, was conducting some sort of experiment involving a dried white flower, a small bowl of salt, and what I hoped wasn’t blood. His hawk-like face was a picture of concentration as he mixed the items together in a small glass bowl on his lap. Sniffing the contents he reached for his notebook and hastily began to jot down scruffy notes in his own shorthand. He then dipped his finger in the, unappetising, mixture and brought it up to his lips, as if to taste it.

  
‘Holmes!’ I exclaimed. He blinked slowly, lowered his finger and looked at me, shocked, as if only just realising I was there.  
‘What?’ he asked, in an affronted manner. I sighed, exasperated, the man never seemed to realise that half of what he did was an offense to every-one around him and, more often than not, harmful to himself.

  
‘Have you even got dressed today?’ I asked, not bothering to lecture him on the health implications of licking his experiments, again. He looked at me blankly.  
‘Have you eaten?’ I continued ‘Holmes, have you even moved from that spot since last night?’  
‘Watson, why would I need to leave? How could moving from here help me to discern the effects of bodily fluids on the datura stramonium flower?’ And with that, he promptly ignored me and went back to his experiment. That was not the first time we had had that conversation, and it would not be the last. However, before I could storm, exasperated, from the room, there was a single, business like, ring of the door-bell.

  
‘A client.’ said Holmes, sitting alert and placing his research to one side. And sure enough only moments later steady, forceful footfalls were heard upon the stairs. Holmes cocked his head to one side, listening.  
‘Sounds like a middle aged man, of average height.’ he managed to say before there was a knock at the door.  
‘Come in!’ he called, standing. The door opened and it was, as Holmes correctly deduced, a middle aged man; he had a crop of short brown hair that was concealed beneath a bowler hat and he was dressed smartly in a brown three-pieced suit.  
‘Mr Sherlock Holmes, I presume.’ he stated whilst confidently stalking across the room and extending a hand to Holmes.  
‘Yes indeed,’ Holmes replied whilst shaking it ‘and you are?’  
‘Mr Trevor Baxendale and I have a most pressing problem which I require you to address immediately.’ At this I perked up, it had been two days since Holmes’ last case, which involved a broken mirror and a capuchin monkey; and, as had been proven just moments before, he had been growing restless. I pulled over another chair and ushered Mr Baxendale to be seated.

  
‘I hope, Mr Baxendale that it would not bother you if my dear friend Dr John Watson were to listen in.’  
‘Of course, he must stay; it is an interesting tale.’ At this Holmes lent back in his chair, put his feet on the mantel piece, and bid Mr Baxendale to start his story.  
‘My uncle, Justin Baxendale, owns a small grocers shop on the outskirts of Newcastle. Two days ago he wrote me a letter, explaining a series of peculiar events that had been happening to him. He wrote that every morning there would be, on his shop counter, a small porcelain figurine of the moon. At first it was of a crescent moon, but as the days went by the figurines would change to show the waxing and waning of the cycle of the moon. However what puzzled him more was that the room the figurines were left in was locked with the windows barred, and there were no signs of a forced entry. After a month of this he decided to try to catch the perpetrator out, so he sat down in the shop one night, out of sight, and waited. Morning came and there had been no porcelain figurine. Puzzled at this sudden change in routine he went upstairs to dress, but on his bed was a new figurine. He picked it up, as he described to me, shaken, as the only way to his room had been past him or through a single window set into a sheer wall with no window-ledge or guttering to cling to. But this eerie phenomenon was not what caused him to call for my assistance. On examination of the figurine he saw, printed on the base, a single letter “L”. This lead him to check the others, for he had kept them all in a box, and he saw that they too had letters printed on them. They had been kept mostly in order and, with only minimal re-arranging, were shown to say: “on 1 9 1 1 take the moonbeam to the owl”. I had no idea what it meant, but mentioned it to a friend whilst travelling to London today on business, and they recommended you.’

  
Holmes placed his feet on the floor and lent forwards, with his elbows on his knees, staring intently at Mr Baxendale.  
‘A most singular series of events, thank-you for presenting it to me. Now your uncle, what is his history?’  
At this Mr Baxendale looked taken aback; he paused for a moment, looking at the ceiling, and then said ‘Well he has been in the grocery business all his life. He inherited the shop from his father, my grandfather.’  
‘Hmmm. Very interesting.’ Holmes mused. ‘Now back to this message. It was 1 9 1 1, am I correct?’  
‘Yes.’  
‘Well since it was referred to as “on” then it could be seen as a measurement of time. The year 1911 seems unlikely, as does the time eleven minutes past seven, since so many days with that time have gone past. Therefore, it seems the message is speaking of the date the 19th of November.’  
‘But, Holmes that is just two days time.’ I exclaimed.

  
‘Oh, my!’ Mr Baxendale exclaimed ‘Then you must investigate it at once!’  
‘So it seems. It is a long way to go, but I simply cannot pass up such an engaging case. There is a train tomorrow morning at eight thirty from Paddington station that goes directly to Newcastle.’ Holmes replied.  
‘You cannot go tonight?’ asked Mr Baxendale, visibly disappointed.  
‘I’m afraid not, but I’m sure twenty-four hours will be ample time for me to de-code this strange message.’  
‘Well, then thank-you Mr Holmes. I will have some-one meet you at the station.’  
‘I’ve been admiring your suit, Mr Baxendale, where did you purchase it?’ Holmes asked, just as Mr Baxendale was walking out of the door.  
He frowned, seemingly puzzled at this strange outburst ‘A little tailors just off of Fleet Street.’ Holmes’ gaze lingered on him for just a short while, but as some-one who knows him well it was an age. Once he had left Holmes lent back in his chair closed his eyes and did something that I had only seen him do a handful of times, smirked.  
‘Most amusing’ he mumbled.

  
‘Yes, I suppose it is. But I can’t for the life of me think why some-one would go to all that trouble with the moon figurines just to send a simple message.’  
‘Well’ he replied, smiling now ‘that is the puzzle.’ With this he suddenly leapt to his feet and strode towards his rooms. I frowned and returned to my newspaper, erratic behaviour like that wasn’t unusual.  
‘Shall I pack for the morning then?’ I called. There was a long pause. I tried again ‘Holmes?’  
He walked briskly back into the room, now dressed in a black two-pieced suit with a white shirt, looking effortlessly immaculate, as always.  
‘I’m going out’ he muttered as he pulled on his coat.  
‘What now? At this hour?’  
‘Yes, I have a few enquiries to make before tomorrow.’  
‘Were you even listening to me just now?’  
‘Yes, yes.’ He replied, distractedly as he was already going down the stairs ‘pack…’

 

The next morning we bid Mrs Hudson goodbye and hailed a handsome cab in good time to make the train. Holmes was silent during the journey and I did not take his disinclination to talk to heart. I began observing the people we went past and watching them open businesses and begin their work, flawlessly playing their part in the great dance of life. I started trying to guess what they might be doing or where they were going; were they married, unemployed, happy? Not for the first time I found myself envying Holmes’ skills, the way that he could instantly read a person’s life just by looking at them.

  
We got to the station with five minutes to spare, but when we walked in instead of going to the ticket office Holmes went and sat down in the waiting room. I mumbled to myself and searched my pocket for my wallet; it was typical that he would have me pay for him as well.  
‘Oh, I wouldn’t bother with that, Watson.’ He said, gesturing for me to take the seat next to him.  
‘What do you mean, Holmes, the train is in five minutes?’  
‘Yes, but we’re not taking the train.’  
‘What do you mean? What about Justin Baxendale and the strange message?’  
‘I fear, my dear Watson, that there is no Justin Baxendale or strange series of events involving figurines of the moon. It was all a ruse designed to get us away from Baker Street and far away for a considerable number of hours.’  
‘You’ve completely lost me, Holmes. If it was a lie then why are we at the train station?’  
‘We will wait here until the train departs then we will go and recruit Detective Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard. Then at five ‘o’clock this evening, just before it gets dark, I have arranged for us to enter the rear entrance of the house across from 221b and station ourselves at the front windows.’  
‘What? Wait, I still don’t understand why Mr Baxendale would lie.’  
‘You would agree with me, Watson, if I were to say that since your tales of our escapades were published we have had more clients.’  
‘Well yes, most certainly.’  
‘And you would also agree that these stories have also made us quite infamous at solving crimes.’  
‘Well, you at least…’  
‘It is my belief that this man and a two followers are attempting to steal from us to show how accomplished they are.’  
I gasped in shock ‘You don’t think that they could be doing it now, do you?’  
‘No, I’m quite certain that they will be waiting for cover of night.’ At that moment our train pulled out of the station.  
‘Come along, Watson. Time for our meeting with Lestrade.’

By the time it reached five ‘o’clock Holmes had still not divulged to me or Lestrade how he had deduced what Mr Baxendale had planned to do. He had palmed us off with the facts that a burglary would be attempted on 221B this evening and that, by morning, Lestrade would have three criminals behind bars. Details, he said, would come later. It did not take us long to position ourselves and several police men, at the front windows of the large house opposite 221B. Holmes and I were at one of the upper windows, directly opposite our living room, and Lestrade occupied the upper window in the room next to ours. The other police men were stationed inside the front door of the house, ready to cross the road and apprehend the criminals.

  
After an hour of waiting, it was now completely dark.  
‘What are we waiting for Holmes?’ I asked whispering despite myself.  
‘I have fixed a discrete trip wire across the middle of the living room, as soon as some-one crosses it the gas light will flare up, lighting the whole room. And really, Watson, there is no reason the whisper; they can’t hear you from across the road.’

  
As soon as he had finished there was a sudden brightening of the light through the window and Holmes sprang into action.  
‘Come along Watson, we have criminals to catch.’ He said whilst striding towards the stairs ‘Lestrade, if you would be so kind as to follow me.’ He called to the next room. I heard Lestrade mumble his ascent and quickly follow Holmes down the stairs. I rushed to catch up and reached the front door just in time to join Holmes, Lestrade, and the police men in stealthily crossing the road. Holmes quietly opened the front door and we all crept up the stairs. On the other side of the door to the flat, foot-steps and hushed voices could be heard, after just a few moments of listening Holmes signalled to us and opened the door. We fell into the room in a flurry, quickly surrounding and subduing two of the men. However the third had fled at first sight of us, I quickly gave chase and caught him, half-in half-out of Holmes’ bed-room window. I pulled him in and quickly, with the help of Lestrade who had caught up, man-handled him back to the living room. All three were gathered in the middle of the room facing the fire place, a policeman covering every escape, and Holmes was standing in front of them.

Mr Baxendale was in the middle of the three and looked the angriest of them all ‘How did you know what we were planning? Even you cannot have worked it out, who told you?’ he barked.  
Holmes surveyed him for a moment, before saying calmly ‘You did.’  
‘Me? I told you nothing!’  
‘Oh, but you did. The truth was all over you, your clothes, the way you spoke, and even your name.’  
‘My name…’  
‘Yes. Trevor Baxendale is not really the most inventive alias is it? Especially since it was the name of the journalist on page two of the Times, yesterday morning.’  
‘It’s just a coincidence…’  
‘I don’t think so, Mark Morris.’ At this Lestrade let out a gasp of surprise and the other policemen looked shocked.  
‘You kept that to yourself, Holmes’ he remarked.  
‘Who’s Mark Morris?’ I asked.  
‘He has been responsible for nearly all of the major thefts that have taken place in and around London over the last five years. No-one has ever caught or seen him. All that was known was his name, which was let slip by one of his lesser followers who was caught two years ago.’ Holmes replied.  
‘I see, and he wanted to really prove himself by stealing from you.’  
‘Indeed.’

  
‘But I still cannot fathom how you worked it out.’  
‘My suspicions were first aroused when Morris entered the flat; he ignored you, Watson, and greeted me with assurance, as if we had met before. I also thought, in light of his story that it seemed strange that he made it clear that the case needed to be addressed immediately. This is because the story in itself is strange but does not seem urgent, until the fake message is partially worked out, but Morris was feigning ignorance as to its meaning. Therefore it is quite obvious that he wanted me away as soon as possible. It was also clear to me by his hands, eyes, and his general smell that he was not in town on business, as he claimed. He had spent the best part of the afternoon and the early evening in a pub, although he was not drunk his eyes had a slightly bloodshot look. He had obviously tried to get rid of the smell of alcohol by scrubbing his hands, as shown by a rough redness, and changing his clothes, but the smell still hung to his hair. It was at this point that I started looking out for a series of pointers, that I have been compiling, that indicate that a person is lying. He seemed very well rehearsed at telling the story and didn’t miss any detail or backtrack, as people tend to do when they are telling the truth. Also the story he was telling was incredibly singular and bizarre, which was obviously designed to entice me into taking the case. There were also a few points that he seemed unsure on, for example when I asked him his uncle’s history, he seemed stuck for an answer for a while and his eyes moved visibly up and right, which are usually clear indications of lying. The final thing that clinched the matter was his suit.’  
‘His suit?’  
‘Yes, it fit perfectly.’  
‘What of it?’  
‘Well I wasn’t sure at this point if anything he had said so far had been the truth. When I asked him where he had purchased his suit he had no reason to lie so from this I was able to distinguish between his body language when lying and telling the truth. From this I firmly established that the tale he had been telling was a lie. Then all I had to do was work out why he would lie. So I make some quick enquires around town looking for any recent criminal activity, and I quickly found out that Mark Morris had recently recruited a man.’  
‘Brilliant!’ I exclaimed. Holmes smiled, clearly enjoying the fact that I took such pleasure in his deductions.  
‘But what would you have found if you had believed him and gone to Newcastle?’ Lestrade asked.  
‘Nothing. But by the time me and Watson had arrived in Newcastle, found nothing and come home, Morris and his associates would have been long gone.’

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the save Undershaw competition.


End file.
